A Crown of Ash and Snow
by catchingthegirlonfire
Summary: Picking up where Season Eight ends, the stories of those who survived the Last War continue. What becomes of the characters we have followed as they played the Game of Thrones? Warning: Season 8 Spoilers Ahead! Rated T for mild language and fantasy violence.
1. Chapter One: Fell Deeds Awake

**A Crown of Ash and Snow**

_The events of this story take place immediately at the end of Season 8 of Game of Thrones. Spoilers for the final season are interjected throughout. If you have not watched the final season of Game of Thrones, it is strongly advised that you do so before reading. _

* * *

Chapter One: Fell Deeds Awake

**Introduction**

"Fire and blood", the fateful words said to Daenerys Targaryen countless times throughout her life felt of the utmost importance to her of late. She was losing her grip, on reality, on her people, Jon Snow, _everything. _Fire and Blood was all she had left. The Targaryen house words once struck fear into the hearts of many during the reign of her father, and have been doomed to do so again. Fire and Blood was not merely a saying, it was Daenerys' credo, whether she knew it or not. Everywhere she went she left a trail of fire and blood, for good or for evil, and she could do little to stop it. The madness, slow yet steady, had begun to take over her. She was no longer the little girl yearning for the house with the red front door and the lemon tree, she wanted more.

"Fire cannot kill a dragon" was one of her brother's favorite things to remind her, especially as he tortured her with creed words and cruel treatment. Fire truly could not kill a dragon, or so Daenerys discovered on that fateful day as she burned in the desolation of the Red Waste. In fact, it was fire and blood that gave her life, and incidentally her dragons. As Mirri Maz Duur, the Lhazareen witch who stole her husband from her, wailed into the night and the blood in the mighty Khal Drogo's veins turned to ash upon his funeral pyre, Daenerys' house words took on a new meaning for her. Fire and blood is what forged her, and fire could not kill a dragon. But ice could.

Daenerys had never truly thought about dying. With her three dragons, Ser Jorah, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied behind her she was all but immortal in her mind. When the Great War came and her friends were picked off like flies she lost a part of herself. Her spark, her passion for helping others, was slowly dying within her. Words like "liberation" and "saving cities" left her lips but no longer held the same meaning as they did when she liberated the slaves in Slaver's Bay. There was a hollowness inside her that neither Jon Snow nor anyone else could fill. Yet still, ice tried, but fire and ice do not well mix.

With each loss she experienced, a part of Daenerys was irrecoverable. Like peeling away the petals of a flower, pull a few too many and all that's left are its roots. Daenerys, stripped of all else, fell back on her roots. At her core she is and always was a dragon. In her youth she oft wondered about her father, the Mad King, and worried that she'd share the same fate. She struggled against the darkness, filling herself with light and love, suppressing all notions of madness. And her friends truly were her lights, they kept her sane. Without them, she wouldn't have a leg to stand on, but dragons could fly. And so she did.

Daenerys soared over King's Landing on that fateful day she waited for the bells to ring out, to tell her the throne was hers. When the bells did ring, and the city was hers, something within her broke. She thought of Viserion, Ser Jorah, Rhaegal, Missandei, all gone from her. Who would she share in the joy with? The lights she held tight onto were no longer there. She felt nothing, only drunkenness on power and grief. Like snuffing out candles in the night, once all fire is gone what remains is only darkness. As her friends fell into ruin, so did her sanity.

She rained down calamity on the peoples of King's Landing on an unparalleled scale. The enormity and gravity of what she had done was all but lost to Daenerys. In one fell swoop she turned away from being Mother of Dragons and became at long last the Muña Morgho, Mother of Death. Drogon flew over the city like the black death. Buildings crumbled, stone turned to ash, and the people with it.

Chest heaving and heavy, Daenerys drank in the scene. The sight might have horrified her not five years past but this- this was different. The queen looked but she did not see. Daenerys saw only enemies, surrounding her, loyal to Cersei, who would never bend the knee. The people screamed for mercy, she only heard battle cries. While children screamed in agony, she heard them call her name, "Daenerys! My Queen!". The Gods had finally flipped the coin, as they did with all the Targaryen children, and her fate was madness.

She had once professed that she didn't want to be Queen of the Ashes, but she has ensured it now. What was the point of delaying the attack? She could have taken the city a dozen times in this manner. Who would be left to rule over when the day ended? Surely no-one could survive such a calamity. And yet, some did, mangled, burned, with ash-filled lungs. Were they supposed to thank her for the liberation? It wasn't untrue, Daenerys would never find love in Westeros. The people could have loved her as they had in Essos, but _she _did this.

She could have taken the city with almost no lives lost. But in truth, when the bells of surrender stopped ringing Daenerys barely noticed. It had been her that made them stop for her fell beast's fire had knocked the tower to the ground. Countless towers fell that day, and Daenerys cared not to look back at them. She had erased all possibility of earning the people's respect and admiration, which she so desperately craved. They would have welcomed her as a hero. Instead, to the people, she'd become worse than the tyrant, Cersei, and that was saying something.

The city, long fallen hours ago, was a smoking echo of its previous enormity. Reduced to rubble, the city didn't look half as impressive as it once did. As Daenerys emerged from the ruins of the Red Keep after the battle was won she truly was the queen of the ashes. Only her armies, still reeling from bloodlust and lost, would continue to feed her ego, her madness, as she made her grand promises and speeches to them. She promised that she'd continue until the people of the world were liberated. The only liberation the people needed was from the certain death she'd bring them.

At long last, in the throne room, before the iron throne that was so sorely worn, it had been Jon Snow that had liberated her. As the dagger plunged into her heart and his lips left hers, brow furrowed, she was confused. _How could he do this to me? I am his queen! _She had no words now, as the blood dripped from her nose and mouth. _Dracarys. I will kill them all. _Daenerys' eyes darkened and death took her, she'd never have the chance.

Bran watched as Drogon set the iron throne ablaze, reducing it to burning embers and silky pools of molten iron. If he had not been the Three Eyed Raven, his heard would have skipped a beat. He had gone back to watch the fall of King's Landing from Daenerys' eyes. His eyes, milky white, felt what it was like to be hers. He watched as Drogon swooped down, grasping Dany's body in his great black claw. He'd headed east. East towards Essos, seemingly to never be seen again.

Suddenly, Bran snapped back to reality, his reality, his eyes returning to him. He blinked and Sansa came into view. "You were doing it again," she said disapprovingly.

"Was I?" Bran whispered cooly.

"Yes," she said impatiently, "You were watching _her _again, weren't you? What's the point, Jon's killed her. It's over now."

"Nothing is truly over," Bran said emotionlessly, "Not for me."

"It's not as if you could change anything," Sansa paused, "Could you?"

He did not answer her, but in truth, Bran likely could. Before he had taken up the mantle of the Three Eyed Raven he saw it happen twice. Once, he had watched his father turn to him, hearing his voice on the wind in the shadow of the Tower of Joy. That had scared Bran then, or so he remembered now. The second time scared him far worse. As he commanded that Hodor hold the door for he and Meera as they fled from the White Walkers, he scrambled Hodor's brain. Bran hadn't had a handle on his powers then, but he knew better now.

Bran, at the snap of his finger, or at the least the white flicker of his eyes, had the power to erase it all, to start again, _to change things. _Yet history was already written, and it was not his place to change it. He would not bring Daenerys back, nor stop her from burning King's Landing. One wrong move and he could erase Arya's victory against the Night King, and it would be his own home that was overtaken by death and destruction. He could have saved his sister from the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, or perhaps have ensured Jon's death at Hardhome. He could have spared his brother Robb and his mother Catelyn from the Red Wedding, but just have made their heads fall of their necks beside Ned Stark before the great Sept of Baelor instead. The past was not something to be changed without repercussions. Bran saw all the possible futures in his mind, and wouldn't jeopardize the present, for good or for evil.

* * *

**Sansa**

Bran and Sansa had been bobbing in a cabin on a ship for weeks, making their way to King's Landing. They were summoned to a meeting of all the great houses of Westeros upon the news of the Queen's death. Sansa worried for Jon, in chains in the Red Keep, and feared what Grey Worm would do to him, still reeling from the death of Missandei and Daenerys. Grey Worm had promised to keep him alive until the great houses could convene and decide his fate. With Sansa at the table, they would have no easy task in putting him to the sword.

In truth, the Seven Kingdoms was leaderless, listing ever-closer to complete collapse. The wars, for all it touched the north, made the people stronger, and Sansa knew how to use that strength. As they sailed, the walls of Winterfell were being rebuilt, crops rationed, and the people cared for. She would not let the North fall, not whilst she was still alive. _I am of the North, born of ice and the winds of winter. The Red Wolf. We will recover, the pack has survived. _

"Whatever happens," Sansa started in on Bran, who she knew hardly cared to speak at all these days, "I'm not handing them the North."

"You will not have to," Bran said knowingly, "The northmen will not kneel."

Sansa paused and half whispered, "And neither will I."

Bran smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. Sansa thought it made his face look strange. They had all changed, her, Arya, Jon, Bran, but Bran was an echo of his former self. All of their trials and the wars took much from them. Sansa's bones had turned to steel, whilst Bran was broken, save his mind. Sansa wondered if their parents would be proud of them or horrified at what they had become. Parents were supposed to leave the world better than they found it for their children, that's what she had always been told. But that was a lie, she knew better now. The children had to make the better world, despite what had been done before their time. Nobody would hand them a better world, they'd have to make one for themselves.

Sansa was surely ready to begin bringing her vision of a better world into fruition. As she spoke up at the fateful meeting that would decide the future of Westeros, she drew her line in the sand; the North would have its independence. She was half sad that Jon would not be able to see Winterfell be rebuilt, that the King in the North was no more, but that meant it would be her turn to rule. Her rule was a merciful one, based on the teachings of her parents. They had tried their damndest to keep the North peaceful and prosperous, but Sansa had power now, real power. She wouldn't use it to burn children alive, nor break chains, blow up Septs, rule over others in tyranny, she'd help people.

Sansa cast away her necklace that she had worn since Winterfell was reclaimed. A circle, a symbol of her strength and perseverance, bound in chains, echoing her victory over Ramsay, Cersei, even Littlefinger. She had no more use of chains in her kingdom; she was free. She removed the braids from her hair, leaving it unadorned. All her life she styled herself after her mother, Cersei, Margaery; now it was time for the true Sansa to emerge. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, she felt reborn, liberated. Her gown of grey and Weirwood leaves sank to the floor, elegant yet simple at the same time. A great black fur cape swung over her shoulder, trailing behind her. It was of the north, as was the woman who wore it.

The people beamed as she made her long slow march to her throne. She hardly felt nervous. After all, this was not the first time she had walked down the aisle. And yet, it felt like the first time. This was the first time Sansa would be walking towards the future of her own free will. A crown was placed upon her head; a simple thing with two direwolves, one devouring, the other growling proudly towards the sky. No garb had ever made Sansa look more radiant. She was glowing less in the firelight, but in the glow of her people.

As she sank into the Direwolf Throne, her heart soared. As a little girl she always envisioned herself a lady, a queen even. She came close for a time with Joffrey, but she was not suited to sitting on a velvet stool at a man's feet. She had found her voice, the little bird she once was dead, and now it was time for her to fly alone.

* * *

**Bran**

As Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, and Ser Podrick Payne escorted him to the small council chambers for their first meeting, Bran's attention was elsewhere. He sat in the middle of a ruined city, a newly minted king, yet his mind wandered East. He spent most of the day thinking of Drogon, wondering if the beast would return. It was on the mind of the small council as well.

As Bran took his leave and entered his chambers, his eyes turned white. He was soaring, above the sea, fast. He had warged into a gull near the edge of the city. Soon he was flying over open water, the wind in his wings. The sun shone above him, making the ocean look as though it were filled with fire.

Bran could feel the bird weakening, it was not meant to stray this far from shore. He rounded back, headed for the craggy shores of Dragonstone for a new beast. Bran had never set foot on these shores himself but felt he knew them well. He knew which steps of the castle stairs were loose, he knew were the cave drawings were in the dragonglass mines below, he knew the place the Targaryens had once called home.

As he set off to fly, he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. The little bird whipped around to stare into the eyes of a fully grown dragon. The dragon's mouth smoked and puffed, but would not waste its time on a bird so small as he. Still, Bran flew well away from the beast. Drogon was found at last. His eyes looked sad, if that was even possible for a dragon. He was the last of his kind, his mother dead. His mother. _Where is your mother? _Bran thought.

The small bird flew into the castle but sight nor sound of the queen's body was found. Drogon would not have dropped her into the sea, would he? Would her bones rot amongst the mangled remains of Rhaegal? Surely she would not have burned in his fires. Where was Daenerys' body?

To find that answer Bran could not ask the present, he'd have to look to the past. He let his grips on the small bird go, saw a flash of the king's chambers for half a second, and was flying again. He flew under a great shadow, larger than reckoning. He was in the beast's claw, watching the Queen's body limply blown by the wind. _What has he done with you?_

Bran and Drogon flew for what felt like an eternity. Even from this distance he could feel the beast's heat, his fire, his rage. The dragon was grieving. He flew east to wreck cities, to die, to inter her, he did not know. Drogon was determined, flying deliberately, towards the place his queen had worked so tirelessly to leave behind her. Drogon had once taken her to the Dothraki, was this where she was to be buried?

Bran caught glimpses of Tyrosh, a harbor in the Free Cities, and even the lovely Lys, just north of the Summer Isles. With every land mass they passed, Bran was sure he'd see Drogon swoop down and make his landing, but he did not. They left each passing city by in a funnel of wind and seawater. The dragon croaked and roared but never breathed fire, nor stopped for food.

If the dragon was headed for the Great Grass Sea, at the very least it had not taken the most direct route. Bran could see the fabled city of Valyria in the distance, the ruins of a once-great empire. If he wanted to, with a thought, faster than a wish, he could see it in all of its glory, prospering again. However, Bran had not the time to travel to the past, for following Drogon's journey was all too tempting.

At long last Bran discovered where the winged darkness was taking its mother: Volantis. It was as unmistakable by air as it was on the ground. He soared over the great harbor and port, past the point at which the Rhoyne river meets the Summer Sea. Drogon's wings flapped hard, as onlookers struggled to stand against the hurricane of winds he left in his wake. Volantis was no stranger to odd happenings but a dragon, a living dragon, hadn't been seen in this part of the world in an age.

Bran knew it in his heart but somehow did not want to admit it to himself; Drogon had taken the queen to the Temple of the Lord of Light. The temple was enormous, it made Aegon's High Hill look like a gentle slope. It's ancient buttresses, pillars, stone-carved figures, towers, and domes towered over even Drogon. The temple looked as though it had been hewn from the mountain beside it. It stood nearly three times as high as the Sept of Baelor. The enormity of the structure cast an odd shadow but also glittering light; the building looked to be afire with rich and vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. Stained glass and gold glittered upon it in all of its splendor. The building reached high, up into the clouds, fading into the sunset.

Drogon roared as the closed in on the temple, his great wings causing the glass windows to tremble. Priests and priestesses rushed to the window to glimpse a sight of the beast. They stared in wonder. After all, what is a dragon but fire made flesh? Their god was fire, R'hllor, the Red God, the Lord of Light. Melisandre had been his loyal follower until her death, but many in Westeros were wary of her teachings. She both led Stannis Baratheon astray yet was able to bring Jon Snow back to life. Whatever the Red God wanted, Bran hadn't thought he'd hear much from them again.

Bran had seen much of Benerro, High Priest of the temple and First Servant of the Lord of Light. Benerro; the man was whiter than snow with a bald head and a lithe frame. Benerro had been a fervent supporter of Daenerys Targaryen's reign. In fact, it was he who preached that the Queen was Azor Ahai reborn, a legendary hero that will stand against the darkness, even though they may fall with that darkness. If Daenerys had truly been Azor Ahai, her own darkness had defeated her.

The dragon swooped into the clearing before the great temple. The people scattered, all except the famed slave soldiers of the Fiery Hand. The Fiery Hand protected the temple with a thousand men, no more, no less. Each had a flame tattoo upon their cheek and dressed in orange robes with ornate armor. They carried tall spears with a points that looked of flame. They encircled Drogon, pointing their spears toward the dragon.

The dragon roared and dropped Daenerys' body gently upon the ground. He nudged her toward the group of soldiers, touched off the ground with a thunderous boom, and took to the skies once more. Bran saw one of the soldiers move forward and prod her gently.

He said, "It is her. Quickly, Vorgoros, Nolarro, bring her to Benerro at once."

The two soldiers wordlessly did as they were bid and scooped up the Queen's lifeless body. Bran followed them up the steps of the great temple. He had half forgotten what it was like to walk again, it was a strange sensation. Invisible and silent as a ghost, Bran watched as all of the Red God's disciples began to converge on the body.

They marched her through a crowded hall and into a large chamber. The very walls looked as if they were chiseled of flame. Large braziers burned bright all around them. The light was so blinding Bran half wondered if he should cover his eyes. Out of the light stepped Benerro, his face tattooed with a flame just as the soldiers. He wore a scarlet mask of fire from forehead to neck, only exposing his thin lips and tired eyes. Without such light around him, he would have been a monstrous sight.

"High Priest," Vorgoros proclaimed, placing Daenerys' body before his feet.

"What has happened?" Benerro demanded in his native tongue.

"We know only rumors. Rumors that the dragon queen purified King's Landing with dragonfire. The city has only just stopped burning."

"That must have been a sight to behold," Benerro admitted, bending down to look at her, "I was aware the city was taken. I did not know that she fell in the battle."

"I am unsure she did, my Flame of Truth," Nolarro admitted, "For we were told she gave a momentous victory speech, promising to liberate all of the cities of the world with her fire."

"It would appear," Benerro started, "That she never got the chance."

Benerro pulled the dagger from her chest and examined it. "A fine blade," he turned it over in his hand, "Made in the north if I am not mistaken."

"I had been under the impression that the northmen were her allies, the very army that helped her take the city," the High Priest wondered aloud.

"She has no other wounds, scars, no other signs of struggle," he elaborated, "This, this, was murder."

"Murder?" Tycho Dynyr, the High Priest's disciple spoke up, taken aback, "Why?"

A long silence filled the hall as every neck craned to look at her lifeless body. Her face still looked confused, damaged, broken. At long last Benerro spoke up and said, "Why don't we ask her?"

* * *

**Jon**

Jon didn't know what he expected after he drove his dagger into his queen's heart, but he certainly did not expect to still be alive. As Grey Worm and his soldiers dragged him from the room, hearing the commotion Drogon had caused as he destroyed the iron throne, Jon wondered why he was not slain on the spot. He deserved it, or so he thought, for murder was far worse than treason.

After enduring months as a captive in shackles, it felt good to stretch his legs as he rode to the Wall. He needn't watch much up at the Wall, the threat of both wildlings and White Walkers would no longer terrorize the Seven Kingdoms. He had made a commitment to serve the Night's Watch all those years ago but it felt strange to him to still be honoring it. All of his friends were dead or in the South, save Tormund and Ghost, who looked upon him fondly as he entered the gates. The Southron guards that had escorted him to the Wall left him in the care of the wildlings and turned back south.

"The King in the North returns," Tormund yelled as Jon followed him into the hall.

A tall mug of ale was thrust into his hands. It felt strange as it touched his lips. His body was sore and he had a strong thirst, but for water not ale. "Don't call me that," Jon snapped, "I am no king."

"You could be," Tormund said, "Our king."

"I thought you weren't a kneeler," Jon turned on him, "No, the wildlings will never kneel again. And I won't either."

"You kneeled," Tormund said, "To her. The Dragon Queen."

Jon Snow winced at the thought, "Don't talk about her," he barked.

For Jon, the wound of Daenerys' death felt like it would never heal. His head knew he did the right thing but his heart still ached for her. It had to be him, nobody else would have done it, save perhaps Tyrion. But Tyrion had been imprisoned, now he was hand of the king. Commit treason, get promoted. Kill your queen and live in exile forever, that was his fate.

"Don't get touchy with me, boy, I'm not the one who stuffed her like a stuck pig," Tormund laughed.

Jon, irritated, turned from him. Tormund clasped a massive hand on his shoulder, "Little Crow," he started, "I know how much she meant to you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I made a choice that I'm going to have to live with until the day I die," Jon said, "I loved her. I loved her until the end."

"Even now?" Tormund asked.

Ghost put his head on Jon's feet. "Forever," Jon said, clearing his throat, changing the subject, "I suppose you're the one in charge around here, eh?"

"I'm the only one who wanted the job. But now that you're here I could-"

"Don't even think of it," Jon warned him, "These are your people, and this is your command."

"They're your people too now," Tormund reminded him, taking a large swig from his drinking horn.

"I'm to stay here and man the Wall," Jon told him, "To live out a life sentence serving the kingdom like I promised."

"I thought your sister was the queen now," Tormund said, "The pretty ginger one."

"She is," Jon smiled with pride, "But they had to strike a deal with Grey Worm. I'll never go free."

"Grey Worm ain't here now is he?" Tormund looked around and laughed, "You can stay here alone and freeze your balls off at the Wall, or you can come with us and be free."

"I can't," Jon Snow started, "It wouldn't be right. I'm to take no wife and father no children. To watch the Wall, to protect the realm. Setting myself free wasn't exactly part of the deal."

"I thought you said I was in charge," Tormund frowned.

"You are,"

"I say you come with us, Little Crow. You can tell Meal Worm-"

"Grey Worm," Jon corrected him, laughter creeping through his stoic demeanor.

"-Grey Worm... that you're acting under my orders. Night's Watch business. We're going to start a village up northways."

"You can be my cup boy," Tormund jested, "Always make sure my horn is filled with ale, Snow."

Jon laughed and said, "Is it too late to take back my command?"

Tormund frowned and said, "Alright. You can be a ranger if that gets your jollies."

The two men smiled for the first time in a long time, clinking ale mug to horn, taking a long drink together. The hall was dimly lit but a warm fire roared beside them. Men and women sat together, the last survivors of the Great War, Hardhome, the Battle of the Bastards, and everything in between. The wildlings had lost nearly everything but their hope. Hope is what they always had to hold onto. Jon's thoughts turned to Ygritte and her thirst for freedom. He wondered if she'd still have loved him after all he did. One thing was for certain, they should have stayed in that cave forever.

Tormund cleared his throat loudly and Jon snapped back to reality. "Your little brother is king now," he said plainly, "The broken one."

"Bran the Broken, they call him," Jon smiled.

"Hmmm," Tormund grunts, clearly having had different preferences for the role. "Shouldn't it have gone to you?"

Jon looked up at him in horror. He had thought he left his Targaryen roots down south. Most who knew of his true parentage were either dead or wouldn't dare tell anyone else now. Noticing the look of horror on Jon's face, Tormund elaborated, "You look like you've seen a ghost. Did you not want it that bad? I thought all you kneelers passed the crown to the eldest son. You're his older brother."

Jon breathing a sigh of relief said, "I'm a bastard."

"You Southroners," Tormund shook his head, "Always concerned with who somebody's daddy was."

"It could have gone to your sister," Tormund added, "The little one, who killed the Night King."

"Arya?" Jon was taken aback, "No, she wouldn't want that. Her heart's too wild for that."

"She has a northern spirit," Tormund decreed, "Off to sail the world then?"

"She'll be back," Jon nods, "She always comes back home in the end. With a story or two to tell, of course.

Tormund smiled and said, "What of the others?"

"Sam is Grand Maester now. Lord Tyrion's the hand of the king. Ser Brienne is Lady Commander of the Kingsguard-"

"Big Woman?" Tormund's interest was piqued, "Big Woman isn't coming back, is she?"

"I'm sorry," Jon looked at him with pity.

"Ah, don't be," Tormund pouted, "Our babies would have ruled the fucking world. But she wanted that blond shit."

"Jaime Lannister?" Jon asked, "He fell with his sister in the end."

Tormund shook his head. "She went for the sister-fucker over me. Can you believe it?"

"I think she got what she wanted in the end. She's a knight now, the commander of the Kingsguard. That was her dream."

"She ruined mine," Tormund grumbled slightly bitterly, "But I'm happy if she's happy."

"Nobody down south is really happy. This year hasn't exactly played out how anyone thought it would."

"That's life," Tormund said wisely, "But at least we're still alive."

"Can't say the same for most of our friends," Jon admitted, "Mance, Ygritte, Thoros, Beric, Edd, and the rest."

"Let's drink to them then," Tormund raised his horn.

"Aye, I could drink to that," Jon said, his mug clanking the horn, nearly breaking, "To our friends."

* * *

**Brienne of Tarth**

After what seemed like a climb up the longest winding staircase in the city, Brienne of Tarth emerged in the White Sword Tower. Miraculously the tower had been spared Daenerys' rage; it was one of the few towers that was left standing in the Red Keep. The room was in tatters. Bits of the roof had fallen inward, many of the upper chambers would need repairs. The room smelled of fire and ash but death, at the very least, had not touched this place.

She looked out the window and onto the bay. The ruined Iron Fleet still drifted in places. Ruined masts and ripped sails littered the waters. Blackwater bay had once been beautiful but it was too often touched by war. Bran had decreed that the city would be a place of peace, yet still she kept her sword. _He _gave it to her. It was the only piece of him she had to hold onto, or so she thought. Nobody, not even Bran, could pry it from her fingers.

Turning back to the room, she spied a grand white book, gilded with gold. It looked as if the Book of Brothers had just been put down. Brienne knew full well that it had not been opened in some time. Sitting in a seat at the large faceted table, she threw the book open. She flipped a few pages, finally finding _his. _Dutifully, Brienne recorded all of the great deeds Ser Jaime had done in the War of the Five Kings and Queen Daenerys' quest for the throne.

Dipping the quill into the ink she penned thus: _Captured in the field at the Whispering Wood: set free by Lady Catelyn Stark in return for an oath to find and return her two daughters. Lost his right hand defending the honor of a woman. Returned to King's Landing to serve King Tommen. Took Riverrun from the Tully rebels, without loss of life. Lured the Unsullied into attacking Casterly Rock, sacrificing his childhood home in service to a greater strategy. Outwitted the Targaryen forces to seize Highgarden. Fought at the Battle of the Goldroad bravely, narrowly escaping death by dragonfire. Pledged himself to the forces of men and rode north to join them at Winterfell, alone. Faced the Army of the Dead and defended the castle against impossible odds until the defeat of the Night King. Escaped imprisonment and rode south in an attempt to save the capital from destruction._

She lingered for a moment after writing the last sentence. Sighing, small tears in her eyes she penned four final words: _Died protecting his queen._

At once Brienne snapped the book shut. She hadn't even thought to mention that Jaime was the one who made her a knight. No, that would be far too egotistical for her. The facing page next to his remained blank. _This one shall be mine one day, _she thought, musing over the kinds of deeds she hoped they'd record. In truth, she had already done great deeds and had a lifetime of tales to tell but like all of the survivors, her story was far from over.

She looked to the door to find Podrick waiting for her. It was a strange sight to see, to her he was but a boy still. But Podrick was a man grown now. King Bran even made him a knight. Usually he beamed with a childish grin, his unusually somber face seemed an odd sight to her. "My lady," he still called her, pausing to add, "It's time."

She stood bolt up and with a sigh, she turned from the book and exited the room. Her legs felt heavy, like great anchors, as she descended the stairs and they made their way to the courtyard of the Red Keep. She didn't know if she could face what was to come. The people looked to her for strength. Despite all she had gone through, she was still the picture of it. Inside, her heart was breaking over what happened to Jaime, the city, her friends. She didn't think she had it in her to keep it up much longer. _I am a knight, _she reminded herself, _and they will not see me shed tears today. _

"I can't," she whispered to Podrick, grasping his arm, "Perhaps it would be better if I just watched from here."

Panting, she stopped Pod abruptly. She could see the pyre in the distance. Though she could not see Jaime, though she knew he was there. She half wished she could erase him from her mind.

"Ser Jaime had love for you, my lady," Podrick said softly, "But he had his own way."

"I know it never would have worked between us," she said, "But that doesn't mean the knife wound to the heart does not hurt."

"Tell anyone and I'll have your cloak," she reminded him harshly.

Pod smiled and said, "I'll stay with you the whole time. All of your friends are here waiting. The funeral will be starting soon."

Brienne wretched into the bush beside them, still out of sight from the crowd. "My lady?" Pod's brow knitted with worry.

Brienne, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, well _six _kingdoms, was not afraid to face death. Jaime? Perhaps. Death? Not in the slightest. She clutched her stomach, which had been unstable for weeks. "I'm fine," she protested, "Just feeling sick is all. Let's go before it begins."

The two hurried to the group and took their places around the funeral pyre. Cersei was laid to rest privately, for fear there'd be unruliness and retaliation. Brienne had heard it was quite sparsely attended. Somehow Cersei's pauper funeral delighted her, though she felt much guilt about it. Part of her was satisfied she was dead, though she would never speak it aloud for the dishonor of it all. Many of her fellows were less hesitant to voice their delight. Arya had smiled oddly when she learned of her death, Grey Worm clearly felt some satisfaction, though he looked as if he would have preferred to have done it himself. Tyrion, though he did not say it, was privately grieving, despite all the bad blood between them. He was his sister, she was dead, and something inside him mourned for her.

Jaime, one the other hand, was different, Jaime was loved, respected. Despite all he had done, pushing Bran from the tower, killing, lying, deceiving, he had a magnetism about him, even in death. Jaime had been special, and the world would never see his like again. Jamie's younger brother couldn't take his eyes off the pyre but Brienne had not been able to bring herself to steal a look. There was a sense of finality to it all, seeing the body. She almost fooled herself into thinking he was not dead, that he'd ride over the hill and make some cruel jape about her and they would drink together, all returned to normal.

Her eyes finally turned to the pyre. Jaime's face was pensive, his eyes closed, lips already blueing with the decay of death. They had prepared him more honorably than that had his sister. Adorned in full garb of the Kingsguard, his sword rested against his chest. Even in death he had a noble look about him.

"I wasn't sure you would make it," Tyrion said suddenly, cutting through the silence, without looking to Brienne.

"It wouldn't have been right. I've taken up his mantle in the Kingsguard, it would be an insult to his memory," she paused, "It is my solemn duty to show him honor."

"Duty?" Tyrion said, finally peeling back his eyes from his brother's body, "Is that all he was to you? Duty?"

Brienne fell silent, not knowing what to say to him. "My brother loved you, you know. Very much. But Cersei was his twin. He could not abandon her in the end."

"I wish I had gone with him," she admitted her misplaced guilt, "Perhaps I could have saved him."

"My brother didn't want saving," Tyrion said, "Only Cersei."

"Don't take it personally," he added hastily.

"I assure you, I will not," she said curtly.

Tyrion looked up at her for a long while. The woman was awkward but not unsightly. "You were the woman he chose," he said, "Cersei was never a choice, she simply was. But he loved you, I'm sure of it."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my lord Hand," she lied.

"You know," he started in on her, "You made Jaime better, and he you. It seems a terrible thing to hide that from the world. He's only dead if you let his spirit die with him. Your duty is not to honor him with your presence, it's to carry on his legacy, keep your oaths, and right the wrongs he inflicted on this kingdom. If you can't do that then my brother is really truly dead."

With those final words the imp stepped forward, preparing to speak to the crowd.

* * *

**Tyrion**

Tyrion was hardly prepared to lay his brother to rest. The biggest joke in the Six Kingdoms, aside from his size, had always been his particular proclivity for talking. His whole life Tyrion was talking himself out of trouble, or better still, convincing others to do what he wanted. Today, he felt no words inside him. No words could do his brother justice in the end.

The crowd fell silent, and stepping forward, Tyrion began to speak, "I know many of you may hate my brother, or at the very least think him a traitor. You are not wrong, my brother was a troubled man, who committed many crimes. The worst of all, he was addicted to love. _The things we do for love, _he'd famously say, and he did do many things out of love. I'll spare you all the unsavory details that many of you have already guessed. But why hide in death his true nature? Jaime, though it pained him, was a man of love. At his core, my brother was the glue that held my family together. Everyone thought that was my father, saintly Lord Tywin Lannister, glorious, biting, strategic. But Tywin fell, just a man in the end. My brother fell a hero, at least in my eyes. It was a famous story once upon a time, but I shall remind you of it now," he continued, looking to the crowd, "When I was born, many thought I was a monster, my sister especially. This was chiefly because of my appearance, yes, but also the fact that I killed my mother. When Joanna Lannister died on the birthing bed it was Jaime, not Tywin, that became my caretaker. He protected me, helped me, never once made me feel like the monster everyone thought me to be."

Tyrion paused, sighing, and continued, "So you see, it was Jaime that brought us together all along. My sister and I despised each other, I hated my father, he hated me. Cersei hated him, but everyone loved Jaime. Everyone loved Jaime his whole life, girls, knights, whores. I have to admit I often half resented him for it," Tyrion smiled in remembrance, "But he wasn't just some gallant knight you might remember him as, or a traitorous murderer, he was my brother, and that was enough."

"I endured the Great War, even escaped fire and death in the Last War. I am the last Lannister living on this good earth. But house Lannister died when Jaime did. He was the best of us, truly, the soul of our once-great family. Today we, at long last, put his soul to rest. May he find the solace in his next life that he sought in this one. Goodbye forever, my brother, my family, my best friend."

Tyrion had no more words left to share. He was already surprised that he mustered that much. _I couldn't disappoint the crowd, _he thought. Two septas emerged and covered his body in a white velvet sheath, the golden Lannister lion embroidered upon it. At that same moment, a guard thrust a blazing torch into Tyrion's hand. The pyre had been seeded with oil, and wicked up the fire with the slightest touch to a nearby branch.

Tyrion took a large step back and watched the flames slowly begin to take his brother. Whilst traditionally the corpses of members of the great Westerosi houses were entombed, the recent events during the Great War had prompted a new tradition. If the Walkers were ever to return, they'd find only ashes in place of an army. The death would never walk again, least of all his brother.

"Beautiful speech," Ser Bronn of the Blackwater jested him, "Pity that shit really didn't deserve it."

"I'll give the same speech when you die," Tyrion admitted.

"Don't you fucking dare," Bronn whispered, "You royal shits love your fancy words and all. I'll die how I lived, a sellsword and a fighter, and I won't have you talking otherwise. I'll come back and haunt you."

"You're lord of Highgarden now," Tyrion reminded him, "You're going to have to clean up your act."

"The Tyrells were fancy," Bronn reminded him, "And all the Tyrells are dead. Fanciness didn't do no good for them, did it?"

"No. Perhaps you're right," Tyrion said reluctantly, straightening the Hand pin stuck to his chest.

"I never thought we'd be the ones that made it," Bronn admitted, switching the subject.

"I never had any doubts," Tyrion lied, "You're a fucking cockroach, Bronn. Of course you'd live."

"That's Lord Cockroach to you," Bronn grinned, straightening his fussy expensive coat collar.

And with that, Bronn turned from away from him and made his way out of the courtyard. Bronn was rough around the edges, but he was one of the only friends Tyrion had left.

"You did your brother justice," Ser Brienne spoke loudly, approaching Tyrion.

He looked up to her, surprised to her cheeks had flushed and her skin pale. "Thank you," he said simply in return for her compliment.

Brienne of Tarth shifted her weight and made to turn away from him. She grabbed her stomach as she did so unconsciously. Tyrion said nothing. All he wondered now was when she'd realize that she was pregnant.

* * *

**Bran**

The Volantine Temple of the Lord of Light seemed strangely larger from the inside. Spiral steps of gold and amber climbed from the large hall, up into brilliant red spires that seemed to multiply the higher they went. If the slave soldiers of the Fiery Heart, Vorgoros and Nolarro, struggled to carry the lifeless body of Daenerys Targaryen up the endless stair, they showed no signs of it. Their arms were strong, their skin barely glistening in the odd light of the place.

They climbed, for what seemed like hours, to the tallest tower of the temple. This room shone so brightly, Bran half wondered if they had walked into the sun itself. The tower reached high, tickling the underside of a silky bank of clouds. The sun, in truth, had been setting. Here, there was ever a bright light.

A large long table was placed in the center of the hexagonal room. The table had been hewn from a particularly large piece of tangerine quartz. In the light of the room, it looked to be aflame. The two soldiers placed Daenerys upon it softly, and turned away from her, exiting the room. Benerro, no doubt, would be along presently.

Bran stood in wonderment. After all he had seen, all the signs that pointed to this, Bran almost did not believe it. How would a dragon have enough sense to bring her _here? _This perhaps was the only place left on earth that could make her whole again. Bran was surprised the beast left her here alone, to go back to Dragonstone to feed no doubt. Looking upon her broken body, Bran wished he could feel pity for her. He wished he could feel pity anyone, in fact, or better still, uncover any sort of feeling at all. It was she who was dead, but in his bones he felt as though he was the ghostly one, spying on events he ought not to have seen. Thus was his burden: he could watch but dare not change, record but not interfere. Daenerys would likely come back, for good or ill, and he would not stop it.

"Tycho," a voice at the doorway spoke softly after a long while, "Have you prepared the potions?"

"Yes, master," the man croaked to Benerro, handing him a large jug of mysterious orange liquid, "If we are lucky, perhaps the Lord of Light will return her to us."

"Luck will have nothing to do with it," Benerro decreed, "This disciple has been stolen from The Lord of Light before she can fulfill her destiny."

"Master," Tycho Dynyr began in a croaky voice, his long white beard quivering as he spoke, "Rumor from Westeros has reached these shores. They say the queen is savage, ruthless, the burned King's Landing to the ground."

"Is our god not savage? Have he not wrath?" Benerro said hotly, "Our god is just and merciful, but King's Landing was full of sinners, non-believers. If it was baptized in dragonfire so be it. Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Moreover, she is Azor Ahai, fire made flesh, and we shall free her from the bondage of death."

"R'hllor is the source of all good," Tycho recited, as if from a book, "If the Dragon Queen has been chosen by him, glory be to her."

Tycho Dynyr backed away from him and spoke no more, fearing his wrath. Tycho was a simpler man, garbed in fine yet somewhat threadbare robes. His hair was long and stringy, but his beard magnificent and white. The tip of his beard was orange, as a young man he clearly had red hair. Was that why the Red God chose him, because he was kissed by fire? Bran had not the time to look to the past and find out.

Benerro approached the table and pulled up the sleeves of his robes. Lightly lifting her body forward he removed her fur coat. Bran could see the large red stain of her blood that matted the fur upon it. Benerro wordlessly held it behind him, his loyal servant Tycho, took it from him and exited the room. Beneath the coat Daenerys wore a queenly dress of deep red velvet. Upon the collar three dragons were embroidered. Without care for the garment, Benerro ripped it open from the small opening the dagger to her heart had made. Naked as her name day, she rested upon the quartz slab.

Reemerging, Tycho Dynyr averted his eyes from her body. Bran did not offer her the same courtesy. In this state she looked small, almost as a girl. She hardly looked the Queen that mounted Drogon and burned the world. "Bring the God's blood, Benerro commanded."

Tycho did as he was bid and placed the jug of swirling orange potion into Benerro's hand. Promptly, Benerro soaked Daenerys' body in the solution and began to wash her wound. At once her skin brightened, and all dirt seemed to wash away from her. She looked now as if she were sleeping.

Benerro dipped the remainder of the jug's contents over Daenerys' silvery blonde hair. With a whispered prayer the table lit with massive orange and yellow flames. Daenerys' body remained unburned by the flames, even in death.

Clearing his throat loudly, he bid Tycho take leave of them. Mystified, Tycho backed from the room and out of sight. Benerro wordlessly encircled Daenerys slowly, counterclockwise and began to speak, "Zȳhys ōñoso jehikagon Āeksiot epi, se gīs hen sȳndrorro jemagon. Zȳhys perzys stepagon Āeksio Ōño jorepi, se morghūltas lȳs qēlītsos sikagon. Hen sȳndrorro, ōños. Hen ñuqīr, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson."

In the common tongue this translated to, "We ask the Lord to shine his light, and lead a soul out of darkness. We beg the Lord to share his fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

The High priest repeated the prayer thrice, each time professing it louder than the last time. As his prayer ceased, the flames died away from her body. A long slow silence ensued; all that could be heard with the frenetic beating of Benerro's heart and his shallow breaths. Benerro began to plead with his god, begging him to restore the queen's life. He had failed.

Benerro turned to leave the room, shocked and embarrassed at his utter failure. A High Priest who could not wake the dead was no High Priest. Even Thoros of Myr and the Lady Melisandre had bested him in that area, yet they were merely underlings, less worthy and noble than such an important man as he, or so he thought.

Dejected, he fled the room at once. Bran breathed a sigh of relief, examining her body, still cold. His head turned as he watched the door reopen. _Benerro, _he thought but no- it was Tycho Dynyr. He stared in horror at her body, approaching. Sinking to his knees he spoke softly, "My master has failed."

"Please, R'hllor, Lord of Light, help me lead this soul out of the darkness and into the light."

Tycho repeated the same prayer that had failed Benerro not minutes ago. Not looking to her once, his hands clasped together in prayer, he repeated the prayer over and over, as if in a trance. After the 17th time the prayer was spoken a voice came from within the light, "Where am I?" it spoke into the room.

Daenerys sat up from the table, reanimated. She pawed at her naked body, finding the slim clean scar where the knife blade had entered her heart. The wound was healed. Tycho sank to the floor at once, supplicating himself to the dragon queen. "You are in Volantis, my Queen," he answered her at last, "Your dragon brought you here, to the Temple of the Lord of Light."

Bran could hardly believe his eyes. He heard her say bitterly, voice filled with malice and rage, "Where is Jon Snow?"

Bran's eyes snapped back to Dragonstone, at the present time. He found the place to be deserted. No sight nor sound of the massive dragon that once had been there not hours ago. With a flash of light and sound, he re-entered his own broken body. The sky dimmed, night had already fallen.

"Guard!" Bran called cooly.

Ser Brienne of Tarth emerged into the room, her sword drawn. "My king?"

"Call the council to meeting immediately," he said simply, "The dragon queen has awoken."


	2. Chapter Two: The Queen of Fire

**A Crown of Ash and Snow**

_The events of this story take place immediately at the end of Season 8 of Game of Thrones. Spoilers for the final season are interjected throughout. If you have not watched the final season of Game of Thrones, it is strongly advised that you do so before reading. Chapter Two, "The Queen of Fire" is a continuation of the first chapter of the "A Crown of Ash and Snow" saga, "Fell Deeds Awake". _

* * *

Chapter Two: The Queen of Fire

**Tormund Giantsbane**

As the wildlings who had made their temporary home at Castle Black sought to find a more permanent home beyond the wall, none of them looked back at the strange castles and places they had left behind. The wildlings did not belong in stone houses, nor did they belong fighting southroners wars. Yet still their recent history was a bloody one, fraught with war, hunger, but above all else _death. _

The army of the dead was long gone, turned to ash in the snow before Winterfell, but the Night King's grip was still on the country. Hardhome was in ruins, all of the wildling villages had been pillaged and burned. It was eerily quiet, or so Tormund thought. Everywhere he turned he expected to hear the familiar shrieks and wails of the dead. The Night King had made a mark upon the land, yes, but more so to the people that lived there.

His people were skittish and quite fearful to return. Many feared that the Night King would return to rain calamity down upon them once again. Tormund did his best to assuage their fears but could do little to soothe his own. The truth was that no one knew what the future held for them. Still, returning to their home was their best option to secure the kind of future he wanted for his people. The wildlings would not march south again.

Wordlessly, Tormund marched with the others through the deep snows. Speechlessness did not come easily to Tormund Giantsbane; he always had a fantastic tale or two to tell anyone who would listen. Looking at Jon Snow, he could tell he was not in the mood for conversation. The Dragon Queen's death for him was still too near. Tormund, at the least, would not make his mourning harder for him.

_He is haunted by the dead more than we are, _Tormund thought to himself, _he carries her wherever we go. _In truth, Tormund never understood Jon's fascination with the Dragon Queen. Ygritte he understood, but Daenerys? What had she of the North in her? Save Jon Snow upon occasion. To him, Daenerys never quite matched Jon. Ygritte made him better, Daenerys just made him different. The same man who once journeyed to treat with Mance beyond the wall was not the same man he looked upon now. Tormund wasn't sure he'd ever see that man again.

He and Jon walked in silence for longer than Tormund could reckon. They passed by many places that made Jon take pause. They passed Craster's Keep, or what little left of it that stood in ruins. Old Craster deserved what he got from his girls in the end, but in truth Tormund wished he hadn't. _We could have at least lived in his house for a while, _Tormund thought, _if his wives hadn't burned it to the ground. _He wondered where the daughter-wives of Craster were now. _Probably bones now, _Tormund thought, _or burning with the army of the dead._

As they continued to walk through the forest, to Tormund's surprise and delight he heart birds overhead; life was returning to the land. It was a wondrous sound to hear. He oft worried if his people would have the food they needed, the shelter, the warmth. He did not yet know where he was marching them, but it needed to be special. He could not uproot his people again. This is where they'd lay down roots.

* * *

**Jon**

Jon's feet were beginning to hurt as they made their slow march up North. This would be his penance. _Be glad you still have feet to walk upon, _he told himself. For now, he should be long dead for slaying his queen. Instead, he'd help the wildlings resettle the North in whatever way he could. Even now after turning down yet another offer to become King in the North, he chafed against following orders. Jon forced all of his ideas, suggestions, and critiques down inside him. He had his chance to rule but he gave it up. He'd have to get used to this new role.

As the Fist of the First Men loomed in the distance, Jon Snow finally spoke up, "Where are you leading us?"

"I don't know," Tormund admitted, "Where would you lead the people if you were me?"

Jon was the de facto leader of the Wildlings, it did little good to pretend otherwise. Tormund has never led, nor wore a crown and he looked to Jon for guidance, "We can not return to Hardhome. That place has seen too much strife for the people to ever be happy there."

"The people say it must be haunted," Tormund interjected.

Jon laughed, "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

"You didn't believe in giants, or wights, or dragons until you laid your pretty eyes on them," Tormund quipped, "For all you have seen, you still disbelieve?"

Jon grunted. He had always been the kind of man that needed to learn by seeing. He thought the wildlings savage until he met Ygritte, he thought the wights to be a story until he fought them, he even balked at the existence of dragons until he saw one in the flesh. Jon is and ever was a hard man to convince of anything without proof.

The two men stopped the group of refugees, beckoning them to take shelter in the tree line. Many of whom that were left were either old, women, or children. In truth the wildlings has lost most of their best fighters. Both Tormund and Jon seemed to wonder how they would recover from this, if they could recover from it.

"I know a place," Jon spoke softly to the wild ginger man, "It's not far from here."

"You're beginning to know the north better than I do, Little Crow," Tormund smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, "Where are you leading us?"

"A valley," Jon said simply.

In truth, Jon had discovered the place as he took his first dragon ride. A vast glittering valley awaited them, with caves for shelter, and sparkling fresh water for drinking. Trees for building loomed nearby. A more perfect place to settle in the north, you could not have wished for. He half wondered if these were the caves in which he spent his first night with Ygritte. There were many caves carved into many mountains in the North, Jon Snow could hardly tell the difference between them.

"_We could stay a thousand years— no one would find us", _Daenerys once said to him as they landed in the unspoiled valley for the first time. And Jon hoped nobody would, for the wildlings had suffered far too much. One thing was for certain, he'd look for no love in this place. In effect, he had already lost two women there.

If Hardhome's name was in any way prophetic, signaling the dark fate that would await the people there, Jon and Tormund wanted the name of their settlement to reflect a new era. At they very least, they didn't want their village's name to spell doom before it was erected.

"Happy Home?" Tormund suggested in jest, grinning.

Jon winced at the name. The wildlings were not a particularly cheery folk these days, they'd never agree to a name so ludicrous. The North was most beautiful but it was also feral, wild, tough living. Most days Jon felt little to be happy about. The lords of Westeros were fond of naming places in this fashion, on the nose and garish. No, the wildlings sought something far more close to home.

"What about 'Snowfort', in 'Winter's Valley'?" Jon suggested.

"Snowfort," Tormund mulled it over, stroking his beard.

After a long while he smiled at Jon and said, "Give it to the fancy lord to come up with our new name. Snowfort, I like that."

"I could think of no better name for the Land of Always Winter," Jon half smiled.

The winds would whip hard through the valley. The days and nights alike would be bitterly cold. But that's who the wildlings were- of the snow. The people were hearty; they would last the winter. Jon was of the snow too, just another one of the Stark men who should have never ventured South. Jon would never make that mistake again.

* * *

**Sam**

No matter how many times Sam slipped his robes over his head, fastening the Grand Maester's chain around him, Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The last time he had set foot in the great library of Old Town the maesters hardly felt as though they should let him in. His mind began to adle as he spent days on his hands and knees, cleaning up after the maesters that were too frail to even read. The frustration he felt during that time was overwhelming. _Now, _he thought, looking at himself in the pocked mirror before him, _I can read every single one of the books in that library and nobody can tell me otherwise. _

It was true, Sam sought knowledge above all else. It was the one thing he was exceptional at, aside from being a loyal friend with the truest heart. That was what the maester's had lost- their heart, and Sam intended to reintegrate it with much haste. He had never thought he'd witness such coldness from men so learned. They let poor Ser Jorah linger with Grey Scale, with the ability to help him. It had been Sam that had cured him, albeit very painfully. The maesters had forbid it. Never again would another man get to make that decision, at least not as long as Sam lived. He'd not let people whom he could help ever suffer again.

He often wondered if he deserved to be Grand Maester. After all, Sam had left Old Town in disgrace without so much as a link of his chain. King Bran felt differently, ordering him to take up the position. Sam was flattered yet often doubted himself. Whilst he did not know it, that was precisely why Bran chose him for the position; Sam had humility.

Sam smiled as he turned to Gilly, who was reading to little Sam. Years past she had never even left the North, never-mind having left the North. She unconsciously held her stomach as she read, protecting their unborn child. Whether warrior, maester, lady, or sailor, Sam's love for that child was unconditional. He'd not do what his father had done, banishing him, hating him. He'd be there for them, to love them, to support them. _I may not be the greatest soldier, or have done many great deeds, _he thought as he moved to sit by Gilly, _but you will always have my love, little one. _

"Do you have to go?" Gilly asked him softly.

"Yes," Sam sighed, "Bran- erm, _King _Bran has summoned me to a meeting of the Small Council."

"For what?" Gilly's brow knitted.

Little Sam tugged at her hair. "I don't know," Sam admitted, "Only that it's urgent, and I'd best be off soon."

"You-you'll be coming back, right?" Gilly half whispered.

"Of course I will," Sam smiled, "I'm not going off to war, Gilly. Only to the Tower of the Hand."

"Though," Sam added, "Depending on the mood of Lord Tyrion and Lord Bronn, sometimes I feel like I'm walking into a battle."

"I just don't like being away from you is all," Gilly admitted, "Especially as the baby gets closer."

"Gilly, you're four months pregnant. It's not as if you'll be giving birth this afternoon," Sam somewhat chastised her, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Why don't you and little Sam go for a walk?" he suggested, "I hear that some of the gardens have been replanted. It's said that they're really quite beautiful."

"Alright," Gilly said reluctantly.

Gilly's behavior was to be expected, or so Sam had thought. They had been through so much strife, she didn't relax easily. In time, she'd come to love living down South in the capital. Upon their arrival, they were married on the beach. The ceremony, while sparsely attended, owing to the fact that most of their friends were dead or exiled, was quite beautiful. Gilly had a glow about her, owed less to her pregnancy and more to her smile. The south, though she tried to deny it, agreed with her.

In three month's time, Sam planned on taking Gilly to Horn Hill so she could spend her final months with child in comfort with his mother and sister. He hadn't seen either of them since his father was killed and he yearned to look upon their faces once more. After the wars, he realized how precious life was, family was. He wouldn't lose touch with his whilst he still had the time to spend with them.

Sam planted a kiss upon little Sam's forehead, clasping a hand lightly on his wife's shoulder. "I'll always come back to you," he smiled, and turned from their chambers, ready to fulfill his duties to the Small Council.

* * *

**Gendry**

One of the final decrees Daenerys Targaryen made before she died made Gendry the Lord of Storm's End, and master of the seat of his fallen father, King Robert Baratheon. Gendry had never been acknowledged by his father whilst he lived. He lived as an orphan, a struggling blacksmith apprentice in Flea Bottom, the poorest section in King's Landing. As Flea Bottom was mostly in ruins, the only home Gendry had ever known was gone. Where would he go now?

King Bran took him by surprise when he held up the decision made by Queen Daenerys. He had retained his newly gained title and holdings. Overnight he had not only become Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, but also Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. A Baratheon had held that title since the War of Conquest when Aegon Targaryen rained down fire and death upon them, unifying the Seven Kingdoms in the process. Bran would not break with that tradition. Nor would Gendry.

One of the seven kingdoms belonged to Gendry now, though he could hardly believe it. He had never even looked upon Storm's End, now he was to rule over it. _If only Arya had stayed by my side, _he thought, _she could have taught me a thing or two about ruling. _Arya had left him in favor of exploring, and Gendry still harbored some small ill will, though he'd never outwardly show it. He had everything he ever dreamed of, yet she was not there. Arya or no Arya, he'd need someone to teach him to rule. He'd not let Storm's End nor the Stormlands fall whilst Gendry the Warhammer defended her.

It felt odd to Gendry to ride under his father's stag banners. He pawed at the sigil emblazoned on his chest in disbelief. If he had told the little boy he once was who he'd become he would have balked at them. Still, he hardly felt as though the armor fitted him. To Gendry, wearing the Baratheon stag upon his chest felt about as natural as a fish on dry land. Still, he was Lord of Storm's End now, and he needed to keep up appearances.

Storm's End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon, loomed before him. Gendry had never looked upon the place before. Storm's End was one of the mightiest castles in all of Westeros. The castle towered high above the sea. Storm's End was a seat of strength; even the ever-present storms, salty air, and the sea could scarcely touch the place. At its core Storm's End was a fortress; it was meant to protect. Bran had told him that Storm's End had endured countless sieges but had never fallen to an enemy. Gendry would not be the first to let her fall.

Gendry watched as the tumultuous waves battered the ancient rocks below the castle walls. The seaward wall was nearly eighty feet thick, the colossal curtain wall encircling a massive drum tower. It pierced the sky like a solitary stone column. Gendry marveled at the enormity of the place. There easily was a one hundred and fifty foot drop into the sea from the top of the walls. The fortress, unlike the many towers of the Red Keep and Winterfell, was just one large building.

Gendry could see sentinels moving towards the top of the tower, their golden armor glinting in the sunlight. "I thought our armor was silver," Gendry narrowed his eyes, peering at the men, "And that Storm's End was abandoned."

"It was, my Lord," mused Sebastion Errol, bannerman of the Stormlands.

Sebastion Errol, Lord of Haystack Hall, was a tall man with a gaunt face. He had a sense of simple nobility about him; he was educated, well-kempt, but cared little for finery nor gold. Sebastion was five and twenty, and the last of his house, save his younger sister, Jelissa Errol. Sebastion had not seen his sister in some time; she'd be nearly six and ten now. The war had kept him from her and he wanted nothing more than to get back to her, to ensure she was safe.

House Errol had supported Renly Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings, after his death, Sebastion and his father returned to the region to support Stannis. Sebastion's mother and father had both perished during the war, leaving him Haystack Hall. Their sigil was one of the strangest in the land, or so thought Gendry, for it was a large yellow haystack upon a field of orange.

Gendry and Sebastion halted a great distance from the keep, commanding their small escort to halt. They narrowed their eyes, peering at the castle. "Those are not our men," Sebastion said wisely, "We wear no gold in the Stormlands. Only silver, as the clouds that bring the storms above the sea. That has long since been our way."

"Lannisters?" Gendry inquired.

"I think not," Duncas Storm, a Baratheon general not well known to Gendry, interjected, "When the Red Keep fell, all the Lannister soldiers that didn't burned were either executed or they turned tail and ran. They wouldn't waste their time taking a keep they could never hold."

Duncas Storm was a squat but sturdy man with a large barrel chest and deep brown eyes. His hair had whitened on his temples, his face covered in a patchy grey beard. His leathers were worn, his cloak moth-eaten, but he had served House Baratheon for centuries, and that was good enough for Gendry.

"Who are they then?" asked Gendry, in disbelief that his first day as Lord of Storm's End could be going so poorly already.

"We had heard rumors," Duncas reluctantly admitted, "But thought them to be thoroughly untrue. Believe you me, my Lord, you would have been the first to know had we put any stock in them."

"If there are rumors then I'd have you tell me," Gendry commanded.

"Many moons ago we received a letter from Arianne Martell, my Lord," Duncas Storm began, "Most of the men were either in King's Landing, the North, or both, we thought nothing of her claims."

"And what were those claims?" Gendry asked impatiently.

"They say there was a Targaryen that sailed across the Narrow Sea," Duncas admitted.

"I know," Gendry said simply, "I've met her. She's kind of the reason I'm standing here, actually."

"You misunderstand, my Lord," Sebastian interjects, "Not Daenerys Targaryen, no. This was Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia Martell. Folks down in Dorne say he was spared the sword when your father took the Seven Kingdoms, that the boy was hidden and sent to live on the other side of the world. Most say he's a fake, an imposter, that he's no real Targaryen at all."

"What does that have to do with Storm's End?" Gendry asked.

"When your uncles abandoned the castle, it is said that Aegon sailed across the Narrow Sea and claimed Storm's End for his own with the help of the Golden Company."

"The Golden Company is gone," Gendry spoke up, "They burned with King's Landing. Arya Stark told me so. Not to mention, I saw their armor collected down in the dungeons. Well- what could be salvaged anyway, what with the dragonfire and all. In any case, the Golden Company's burned, dead."

"Not all of them, apparently," Sebastion gestured to the castle, "Looks like some of them are still here."

"We have not the men to take the castle, my Lord," Duncas admitted, "Not if the Golden Company holds it."

The wind whipped Gendry's face hard. The seawater was unforgiving, biting and licking at all of his half-healed scars from the Great War. He looked out onto the ocean, half hoping he'd see Arya coming about on the horizon. _No, _he thought, _I will do this on my own. _

"We cannot hope to survive a siege. Aye, I know that," Gendry began, "But I know another way we can get inside."

In all the time since Gendry had gone north, he got to know one man quite well- Ser Davos Seaworth. Not only was Ser Davos the best smuggler in the Seven Kingdoms but he was there when his uncle was killed- he was in the cave when Melisandre birthed King Stannis' shadow. Paths that shadow followed led him through Storm's End and to Renly Baratheon's camp. Gendry would follow that same route; he could take his castle back from the inside.

"I'll need a rowboat," Gendry half laughed, "And my hammer."

* * *

**Arya**

Peering up from her maps at last, Arya Stark sighed, rubbing her temples. Her head pounded and ached, but not from her battle scars. No, this was fatigue, disappointment. They had been sailing for a fortnight yet heard no sight not sound of land, bird, or living creatures, save the fish. If she was looking to find what was 'west of Westeros', she was becoming more and more certain that it was nothing. She hadn't left her cabin in days, preferring to stay below decks and out of sight. How could she show her face in front of her men? Would the great vanquisher of the Night King, Arya Stark herself, be so quick to admit defeat? No, she'd rather stay below decks forever.

The last time she'd been on a ship she had been sailing back home to Westeros, across the Narrow Sea from Braavos, preparing to kill Walder Frey and ultimately Queen Cersei. Daenerys Targaryen had saved her the trouble of the latter. A disappointing death for the queen, or so Arya thought. If Sandor Clegane hadn't convinced her to turn back and flee the city, Arya was sure she would have been able to do the deed. Of course, she likely would have died in the process. But the God of Death did not take her that day, neither was it her fate to kill Cersei. Still, Arya she longed to do it, fantasized about how she'd do it, relished in that taste for the sweet revenge she so desperately craved. In the end, it had been stolen from her. Cersei was crushed by falling rocks in the arms of her brother. A poor death in all senses, and thoroughly unsatisfying for her. It certainly wasn't what she deserved. She deserved agony, hardship, _pain, _or so Arya thought. Yet, she tried not to dwell on it; there'd be other green eyes that she'll get to shut forever.

"West of Westeros. I'm just a stupid girl for ever thinking..." she muttered to herself, banging her first on the table, sloshing the mug of ale onto the map.

"Shit," she muttered, sopping up the liquid before it could bleed the ink.

_If there is anything west of Westeros, it's out much further than the distance from Westeros to Essos, _she thought silently, pouring over the map once more. A knock sounded at the door loudly, "Lady Stark?" the voice called, "You must eat. You missed supper again."

"I'm not hungry," she lied, not wanting to show her face to the man, "And stop calling me 'lady', Leith."

Ignoring her, Leith Seacrow slammed the door open. "Hey!" Arya called standing, "You can't just barge in here like that."

"I can," the man said defiantly, "I'm your first mate, and I have every right to look in on my captain."

"Besides, if you're wantin' us to stop treatin' you like some highborn lady, then you're gon ter have to stop acting like one," the man said boldly, "You've been shut up in here for days. The men are gettin' restless; they know something is up."

Leith Seacrow was an Ironborn man, brown of hair, with eyes like bright green seafoam. He was of the same age as Arya, but already an accomplished seamen in his own right. Yara Greyjoy had sent the boy with her to assist her as they journeyed westward. Arya had offered Yara a chance to go with her when she stopped in the Iron Islands on the first leg of her journey but Yara seemed distrustful of the Starks. Arya couldn't say she blamed her, though. After all, a Stark killed her queen.

Arya had butted heads with Leith ever since he had arrived. He was always trying to second-guess her or undercut her decisions. What Arya hated most was that he seemed to have an answer for everything. However simple his speech may have seemed, there was a lot of thought behind his eyes. His arms were strong and his skin bronzed. He kept faith with the Drowned God but that did not bother Arya. After all, the God of Death was known to wear many faces.

"What am I supposed to tell them?" Arya said angrily, "That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing, where we're going, or what we're even going to eat in a week's time?"

"Everyone on this ship is here 'cause we want to be," Leith said simply, "Because they believe in you."

"Do you believe in me?" Arya asked.

"I believe in Yara Greyjoy," he admitted, "And she's got faith in you. I've never known her to be a liar. Not a fool, neither."

Arya had known for some time that Leith thought her foolish. In some ways he was right, she knew little about sailing. She'd only been on a boat a handful of times, and none of them at the captain's wheel. It came as no surprise that he'd have little faith in her, especially now.

Leith cleared his throat through his silence, "The point is, yer men will stand by ya, myself included."

"I suppose the men want to turn back then," Arya sank back down into her chair and took a particularly large swig of ale, "I don't blame them. I probably would too."

"No, m'lady. We'll be keeping going if it please you," Leith said surprisingly, "I always wanted ter be an explorer. And we'll make landfall, don't you worry."

"You may meet your Drowned God before we get there," Arya whispered darkly.

As Leith made to open his mouth to give answer to her, as he usually did, a man appeared at the door. Croll Cratter was of the Riverlands, from a small village due north of Riverrun. He lost everything in the Great War, his home, his family, even his left eye. Still, Croll Cratter was born and bred upon the Red Fork, a meandering and treacherous stretch of the Trident, the largest river in Westeros. Cratter had fought with her uncle, Brynden the Blackfish, during his time but made his living as a bargeman down the river. No finer a waterman could Arya find on the mainland.

"My Lady," Croll Cratter panted, clutching a stitch in his side, "You must come quick."

Arya's hand instinctively reached for the catspaw dagger lingering upon her belt loop. The blade had never left her side since she slayed the Night King. "Ya' won't be needing that," Croll looked at her, his eye widened, causing his eyepatch crinkle oddly.

Arya did not take her hand off her dagger. She had learned far too much on the road to take any man at his word. She'd not be stabbed to death by usurpers as Jon Snow had been. "What is it then?" she asked, trying her best to sound commanding.

"One of the men spotted it," Croll Cratter said, "I could hardly believe it myself."

"A gull flew past not two minutes ago," Croll explained excitedly.

"That means…" Leith started but trailed off.

"...There's land nearby," Arya finished for him, launching from her chair.

She pushed past the two men, ready to make for the decks to see for herself. She turned on the spot without so much as a squeak from her boots and said, "Ready to find out what's west of Westeros?!"

* * *

**Tyrion**

Tyrion Lannister rested his head upon his hand and used the other to tap the table in the Tower of the Hand nervously. Bran must have had a good reason to send for the small council members so early. _What now, _he thought to himself, _what's just around the corner waiting to kill us now?_

The other council members filed in nervously, one by one. Sam Tarly was the first to arrive. "Those robes they suit you," he smiled to Sam.

"Do you think so?" Sam fussed with his chain awkwardly, "It's a bit heavier than I thought it would be."

"Heavy with the weight of knowledge and learning," Tyrion sighed, "At last, a man who understands the burden."

"You could have been a maester, Lord Tyrion," Sam half whispered, "And a good one I'd think."

"Me a maester?" Tyrion said half shocked, "My father would never have allowed it. Can you imagine? The Lannister imp draped in chains bigger than him? Of course not. Besides, iron's not really my color."

"His color has always been chickenshit red," Bronn smiled, sliding into his seat at the table.

"Ser Bronn, how lovely to see you," Tyrion said sarcastically, taking a rather large sip of wine.

"Tyrion," Bronn nodded in return, pouring a glass of his own, "Any idea why we have been summoned by his rolling highness?"

"Nope," Tyrion took another sip, "Only that it was urgent. He would not have called us here otherwise."

"I thought he could see the future," Bronn started, "So why wouldn't have he known this, you know, beforehand?"

"It doesn't work like that," Sam was quick to correct him, "Bran can see glimpses of the future, as well as the past but he can't see what he doesn't look for. Does that make sense?"

"Not in the slightest," Bronn shook his head.

"Well, you and eye have eyes, right?" Sam started to explain.

"Yes, Grand Maester, I'm pretty sure all of us have eyes. Go on," Tyrion said, rolling his own.

"Well, you see, Bran's got a _third _eye, that's why they call him the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Where's he keeping his eye?" Bronn asked, "Because I ain't ever seen no eye yet."

"No, it's not a physical eye," Sam struggled to suppress a laugh, "It's a way of saying he can see the things we can't. Like the past and future."

Sam sighed and continued, "As I was saying, we all have eyes. Our eyes may be opened or they may be closed. When they're opened, we see the world around us. At night when we sleep, our eyes close, shut to the world. You see, Bran can only see things when his eye is open. In essence, Bran only sees when he _looks."_

"Is that why his eyes go as white as your cloak?" Bronn said in jest as he looked up to Ser Brienne of Tarth, who was in a hurry to take her seat.

Her face was puffy and her eyes were red around the edges. Doubtless she had gotten very little sleep recently. _Tortured by my brother, _Tyrion thought, _if only he had stayed in the North with her. Then maybe he'd be here sitting beside me._

Ser Davos Seaworth followed Ser Brienne before anyone else could speak. That would be the last of them, save King Bran, of course. They were still missing a Master of Whispers, War, and Law. Tyrion struggled to think of who was left. Anyone he ever called a friend was either dead or already in the room. What this council needed was new blood, not more of his friends looking to make up for their past sins. No, they had done enough damage already.

As Davos took his place at the small council table the door opened for a final time. Ser Podrick Payne assisted Bran, wheeling him to the head of the table at the far side. Brienne had bid him to do so after he delivered his dark news, for it was her that had the task of summoning the small council. Tyrion noticed even she struggled to mask her apprehension. Worried, Tyrion could glean little from Bran's placid expression either. "Thank you, Ser Podrick," Bran said softly, "Please wait outside and see that we are not to be disturbed."

"Nobody is to interrupt us for any reason," Bran added to ensure Pod understood, repeating, "For any reason."

"Yes, your Grace," Podrick said, bowing slightly, backing out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Lord Tyrion was the first to speak, "Why the secrecy, your Grace?"

"I bring grave news not fit for prying ears and loose lips," Bran said but made no effort to smile nor change his expression.

"Then it is good that we have not filled the position of Master of Whispers," Bronn said in jest.

"We may not get the chance," Bran said ominously, in no hurry to follow-up with more information to qualify his secrecy.

The small council sat in silence for a few moments. It killed Tyrion, for her was a man of many words. He wanted to cry out, yell to Bran to spit out his words with haste. The old Tyrion may have made some sort of joke of it, but the new Tyrion knew better. Instead he used his time to study the King. Ultimately, this is what prodded him to speak.

"You look uneasy, Tyrion," Bran whispered, "Rightfully so. It is time I tell you the gravest news of my reign thus far."

"Those White Walker fuckers back?" Bronn asked, "Or that dragon?"

"Neither," Bran entertained him, "But the latter is much closer."

"Have you found Drogon?" Sam Tarly asked, in wonder.

"Yes," Bran said, "Drogon has flown to Dragonstone."

"Well, that's a relief," Ser Davos sighed.

"I wouldn't be too quick to say that, Ser Davos," King Bran cautioned him.

"I followed the dragon in the night from Dragonstone. The beast was headed East. He held his mother's corpse in its claws."

"East?" Tyrion was taken aback, "Do you think it makes to take her home to Mereen, the Dothraki?"

"I think not, in fact, I _know _not. There is no question about where he has taken her. I've seen it with my own eye."

Sam looked to Bronn as if to suggest he had been foolish to quip about the King's power. "And where in your mind's eye did Drogon take her?" Tyrion sighed, adding, "Your Grace."

"Volantis," Bran said simply, as if it were his breakfast order or the name of an acquaintance.

Few in the room, save Tyrion and Sam, seemed to understand the gravity behind the word. _Volantis, _Tyrion thought, remembering the last time he was there. He had been kidnapped by Jorah and taken to Mereen, the long way around. Despite this unplanned journey, he still knew much of the place. How could he have forgotten the Temple of the Lord of Light?

"Daenerys Targaryen has been taken to the Temple of the Lord of Light, to Benerro, the Red Priest. Drogon dropped her body in the square. I felt the sea air shake off his scales as he took to the air. The gust of wind hit my face like a hurricane. He left her there, like a child dropping their doll at their mother's feet."

"So her corpse is going to rot in Volantis instead of King's Landing," Bronn murmured, "What's that have to do with us, your Grace?"

Sam opened his mouth to answer him but Tyrion cut across him, "It means my worst fear has been realized."

After a great pause, air thick and heavy with anxiety, Bran finally said, "Daenerys Targaryen has been brought back to life."

* * *

**Sansa**

"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa sighed, throwing down the message Bran had sent her, "That is what my mother always told me, and she's not wrong."

_Drogon has carried Daenerys across the Narrow Sea to Volantis. The Red Priest has brought her back to life. Daenerys Targaryen is alive once more. Burn this letter and tell only who you must. Bran. _

Sansa crumpled the note in her hand and threw it into the fireplace behind her throne. She poked it until she was certain the flames had eaten all traces of the ink. She'd learned many lessons from Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys; one must never leave one's secrets laying around for someone to find. Ultimately, both men paid the price for their tactlessness.

"Your grace?" Maester Wolkan inquired.

"A letter from my brother, maester," she said, taking her seat in the direwolf throne, "I saw no reason to be sentimental about keeping it."

Sansa did not yet trust Maester Wolkan. He had served under the Boltons, albeit as a victim himself. Still, he could have helped her escape them, yet he did little to put a stop to them. He may have laid a crown upon her head and proclaimed her Queen in the North, but he did not have her full trust. In truth, Sansa hardly knew if she could trust anyone completely ever again.

She sat, stony faced, in front of the fire and thought about her next moves. She had learned at Cersei's skirts, at Petyr Baelish's elbow, even at the knifepoint of Ramsay Bolton yet still she knew not what to do. What allies had she to fight against a dragon? Surely Daenerys would come for her. She thought of Arya, away at sea, too far gone to make any difference to her. Bran would have to protect the other Six Kingdoms. The Northmen were still reeling from King's Landing. Her thoughts turned to Jon, her brother not by blood but by choice. He was the only one closeby enough to make any difference. Besides which, he needed to be warned. If Daenerys had been resurrected, she'd certainly be coming to take revenge on Jon Snow, for it was he who had slayed her. Someone would have to ride out and meet him. She'd trust no one else for the task but herself.

"Maester Wolkan," Sansa spoke at once, firmly cementing her decision, "Please make ready my horse. I have a long ride ahead."

"Your Grace," he said, taken aback, "But winter has come. You cannot possibly make the journey alone."

She thought on his words a moment. He was right, Sansa could hardly navigate the North alone. What she needed was a guide. "Maester," she started, "Do you know where to find the Reeds?"

"The Reeds?" he wrinkled his nose, "The Frog People?"

"Yes, those Reeds," Sansa said, half annoyed, "Send for Meera Reed at once."

Meera Reed had led Bran through the North and back once. Perhaps she could do the same once again for Sansa. In any case, she was her only hoped if she wished to make it beyond the wall and back home. She'd just won her crown, she wouldn't soon leave it in the snow.

* * *

**Daenerys**

Daenerys' bare chest heaved as she panted in the humid Volantine air. Her lungs were still heavy with ash and smoke. Delirious, she could hardly tell where she was. "I was dead," she murmured, "Jon-J-Jon Snow, he _killed _me."

The bright white of the room hurt her eyes; they burned as though they were still aflame. Evidently, she had survived through fire even in death. They had shed her skins and furs of the north and returned her to the manner in which she started when her dragons were born those long years ago. With a strong sense of deja vu and confusion, Daenerys stole herself to speak again, "I'm alive."

Tycho Dynyr's gaped open-mouthed at her in disbelief. Realizing what happened, at long last, he made a short awkward bow to her. "Queen Daenerys," he said, "We heard rumors that you conquered King's Landing."

"I did," Daenerys said coldly, her voice sounding odd, even to her own lips, "But it was taken from me."

"I never even got the chance to sit upon the Iron Throne," she admitted.

"The rumors also say that Iron Throne has been destroyed," Tycho reluctantly admitted, fearing for the Queen's reaction, "They say the throne was reduced to embers by your Dragon, my Queen."

"And what has come of the city? The usurpers?" Daenerys' eyes darted back and forth, eager for as much information as anyone could tell her.

"We know so very little, my Queen," Tycho whispered, "Perhaps you should rest a bit, not push yourself. You've only just returned to the land of living, glory to R'hllor."

Daenerys hardly even cared to ask how she'd been brought back to life, but that was her nature. She craved intrigue, knowledge. "No," she commanded, "If you know what has become of my kingdom, I will have you tell me."

"O-of course, your Grace," Tycho stuttered, "Brandon Stark has been crowned king, or so I am told."

Daenerys wrinkled her nose, "Bran has been made king? But he's crippled. He never wanted the crown."

Her thoughts turned to Jon Snow at once; when she took the first breath of her new life she assumed it would have been Jon Snow that took her kingdom from her. After all, he was a Targaryen too, with a better claim. "Are your certain Jon Snow is not king?"

"I know not of Jon Snow, you Grace. Only that this man you speak of is no longer of the Six Kingdoms. He was banished for what he did to you,"

_Banishment was not good enough for what he did to me, _or so Daenerys thought, _for he deserved to die for this. Where was Grey Worm? Drogon? Had they not defended me even in death? _"What else can you tell me?" she inquired.

Tycho spoke softly, "Only that Bran was crowned king of the Six Kingdoms. That is the extent of my knowledge."

"Six Kingdoms?" Daenerys questioned him, irritated, "Westeros is made up of _seven _kingdoms, not six. I'd expect a red priest to know better."

"King Bran reigns over only six," Tycho corrected her delicately, "They say that the North has gained independence. The Queen in the North reigns over that territory."

Daenerys scoffed, _Sansa. _She had long suspected that Sansa was not exactly on her side. Clearly, she wanted to be Queen in the North all along. With Daenerys dead and out of the way, who could stop her? _She conspired with him, I know she did, _Daenerys thought to herself madly, _she killed me to gain the North._

"They say that Westeros is largely at peace," Tycho said.

"I gave them that peace," Daenerys sat up from the great slab of tangerine quartz, her brow furrowed, "It was my victory, not theirs."

"I do not doubt your victory, my Queen," Tycho half bowed again, "I only mean to tell you what I know."

Daenerys tutted and asked, "And how did I come to be here?"

"Your dragon left you here in the square," Tycho explained, "Benerro, our High Priest recognized you at once."

"And pray tell me, where is Benerro now?" Daenerys asked.

"B-Benerro," Tycho stuttered, "Benerro was the one who brought you back to life."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed in disbelief, "I think not," she said, "For he would still be here, would he not?"

"No," Daenerys shook her head, "It was _you _who brought me back to life. Thank you…"

She lingered, looking for his name. "I am called Tycho Dynyr if it please you, your Grace."

"Thank you Tycho," she smiled oddly, "But I must warn you. Never let lesser men take credit for your great deeds. Men go not win glory by giving it away to others."

"You're wrong," Tycho spoke loudly.

"I beg your pardons, my Queen," he corrected himself, "I only mean to say it was not for my glory that brought you back to life. It was the Lord of Light, R'hllor himself. You are Azor Ahai reborn at last."

"I'm _who?" _Daenerys asked.

"You must see for yourself, my Queen," Tycho scurried from the rooms.

Within minutes Daenerys began to hear the dull thumping of drums within the chambers below her. She heard high strange voices chanting and praying. Tentatively she stood up. It felt strange to be on her own two feet once again. She wiped ashes away from her body and stretched her back. Slowly, she began to take her first steps once again. She exited the room, emerging into a bright chamber with a large open window at the far side. The sea breeze on her face felt like a dream.

The room was empty, save herself. Tycho Dynyr had gone away, but to do what she did not know. Did the people know she was returned. Tentatively, she approached the window, lightly pushing aside the gauzy pale orange curtains that blocked her view. Shielding her eyes with her hand she blinked hard several times and stepped closer to the windowsill.

As she looked out she was greeted by the people of Volantis. Nearly the whole city had emptied out to catch a glimpse of her. They greeted her with the cheers and devotion she had craved whilst in Westeros. They bowed to her not as a queen but almost as if she was as goddess.

Despite her nakedness and her ashy face they showered down love upon her. Daenerys could not help herself to smile, though she did not know why. It's not often that one smiles so after they find out their lover had killed them and seized power for their brother. Daenerys would set aside that problem for another day. For now, she basked in the love and admiration from the people of Volantis.

Every so often Daenerys caught some words and prayers in her mother tongue of Valyrian said by peoples below. "Azōr Ahaī ēza māzigon arlī!", they called to her, _Azor Ahai has come again!_

"Mirre hail se vīlībāzmio hen perzys!" she heard them shout, "Mirre hail se dāria hen perzys!"

_All hail the Warrior of Fire! All hail the Queen of Fire!_


End file.
